


Darkness, Descending

by moonfishes



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Chenle is a Grand Admiral, Chenle is not a good person btw, Dubious Morality, Kun is a Space Pirate, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not Happy, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Star Wars Galactic Empire Era, mention of kunten hookup, please read notes for more in-depth warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28961229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfishes/pseuds/moonfishes
Summary: Kun makes a deal: Rebel leader Ten Lee's location in return for free reign over the Empire's trade routes. The Empire's Grand Admiral renegotiates; he has something he thinks Kun wants even more.Or: five years after Kun leaves the Empire, he comes into contact with Chenle again.
Relationships: Qian Kun/Zhong Chen Le
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30
Collections: Challenge #4 — Awaken The World





	Darkness, Descending

**Author's Note:**

> In-depth warnings: Everything that I've tagged, so power differences/power imbalances/power play, morally dubious characters (Chenle would be the villain in a SW film lol), one graphic talk of killing, mild sex talk/stimulation (no actual sex), an ending that does not bode well for the main ship--all the usual wonderful things in a dark SW universe fic!
> 
> In terms of Star Wars continuity, this fic is set during the reign of the Galatic Empire, when Palpatine is still alive (as the Emperor), sometime between Revenge of the Sith (III) and A New Hope (IV). Coruscant is the Empire's capital city, and Chenle, as Grand Admiral, is in charge of its administrative duties. But honestly, this could probably read as just being vaguely set in the SW universe--there's room for a lot of interpretation! I've just picked bits and pieces that I've liked out of the SW universe and tried to construct a small story around it.

He was ushered into the hallway by a fresh-faced ensign, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. They approached a large door, and the ensign gestured at him to wait—so Kun waited, politely looking away as the ensign whispered frantically into his comlink. Finally, the door opened, and Kun was greeted with the sight of vast windows, overlooking the Coruscant metropolis, a large dining room, big enough to feed ten of his crew, and unmistakably, at the head of the table, a voice that could be nobody else’s: 

“You’re just in time for dinner. Join me?”

It had been five years since their last meeting. Kun couldn't bear to look at his face. “I don’t want to intrude—”

“It was an offer,” said Chenle, in a way that made it sound more like an order instead. “Are you going to turn me down?”

He’d phrased it like a challenge. Kun sighed internally; he didn’t want to give Chenle the reaction he knew he was looking for—the sigh, the telltale shake of his head, the nervous laughter that always threatened to bubble out of him when he was flustered. Back then—more than five years ago—whenever Chenle had flustered him, he’d always thought it was admirable. Embarrassing, but admirable: that a boy that age could evoke such a reaction in him. But that was Chenle. He was always able to get under Kun’s skin. “Of course not.”

Chenle waved at the table he was sitting at. “Sit, then.” 

Kun moved. He looked at the table. It was a fine specimen: greel-wood, he guessed, from the dark scarlet colour, so rare that it could only be found in one forest on Lothal. It must’ve cost Chenle a fortune, but that wouldn’t have mattered to him; he had one to squander anyways. The chairs were made from the same wood, and Kun agonized over which one to sit in—Chenle’s right side, or left? Farther away to emphasize the distance he wanted to keep, or closer to remind Chenle of his importance? He looked up then, worried that Chenle had noticed his hesitation, but Chenle wasn’t even paying attention at all: he was talking to a Twi’lek servant on the side, gesturing at the still-empty table. The Twi’lek nodded and left the room. Satisfied, Chenle turned back to him. 

“I was just telling them to inform the chef I have company,” he explained. He looked at Kun’s still-standing figure, and raised his eyebrows. “I thought I told you to sit?”

“Right.” Embarrassed, he lowered himself into the chair directly adjacent to Chenle’s left. 

They sat in silence through the appetizer of cheeses and fruits; Kun did not want to start, although that was what he had come to do. Chenle waited, though, with a show of patience that Kun was not accustomed to see in him. This patience lasted until the main course—Bantha steak—was served. “So,” said Chenle, with a wry twist of his lips, “tell me.”

Kun took a bite of his own steak. It was very good; the chef had cooked it to the perfect temperature, and the kiwip grass garnish was sublime. If the chef was anybody but Chenle’s personal chef, Kun would have asked for the recipe. “This is outstanding,” he temporized, refusing to meet Chenle’s gaze. “Please pass my compliments on to your chef.”

“Of course.” Chenle took a bite of his steak. “Mm, very good today,” he agreed. He didn’t give up that easily, though. “Tell me why you’re here.”

Kun took one last bite of his steak and pushed it away. It really was excellently cooked; Kun just did not want his mind to be distracted over deconstructing the dish rather than constructing the words he wanted to say. “I have information you might want.”

Chenle was still eating; he made no motion to stop. “What information?”

“Information that could lead you to the rebels.” 

Chenle’s hands came to an abrupt stop. He stared at Kun. “The _rebels_ ,” he repeated, drawing out the word in disbelief. 

“Yes.”

“And how could you have obtained this information?”

“I, uh,” Kun’s palms were sweaty. He could feel the weight of Chenle’s gaze on him, resting heavy and dark. “In my line of work—I bump into all sorts of different people.”

"Yes, I'm sure," said Chenle drily. “Like rebels who are willing to blurt out base coordinates to a random space pirate?” 

“No! No,” Kun protested. “Not coordinates. Not their base. I just—know somebody. And I think it could help you.”

“Oh?” Chenle had not bothered to hide the curiosity in his voice. Kun had scolded him for it once; too much curiosity was what got high-ranking Empire kids into trouble. But Chenle had wielded curiosity as his weapon, and it made him merciless in a way that the Emperor liked—he was curious enough to carve his own path in the Empire, and careless enough to do whatever he wanted to do to get himself there. It was a trait so easily turned dark. “Who?”

Kun closed his eyes. “I’m sure you know him. He goes by the name of Ten.”

Chenle’s silence bore his answer. Of course he knew Ten; nobody in the galaxy hadn’t heard of his name. Rebel leader _Ten Lee_ had the command of an interplanetary network that dismantled Empire systems from the inside out. Ten had recently been worming his way into the lower levels of Chenle’s Coruscant, and it wouldn’t be long before the seeds of discontent he’d planted rooted themselves in the upper levels of the ecumenopolis. “What do you want from me?” 

“Huh?” 

“I said,” Chenle repeated, in a tone that made him sound like he thought Kun was an idiot, “what do you want from me? You’re not giving me this information for free. So what’s your price?”

What was his price? It was a good question. He’d prepared an answer, but it still felt hollow when he explained: “He’s been messing with my trade routes. Especially on this side of the galaxy, where business is supposed to be good—instead, he’s been taking away valuable contacts that I need. Any more of this and my crew—as well as countless other crews—will suffer. I want you to get rid of him for us.”

“Hmm,” murmured Chenle. He’d resumed cutting into his steak. “Is that it?”

Kun shook his head. “No. I also want you to ensure that my crew and I won’t be harmed. I know you don’t care what we do, as long as we bring business to the Empire, but some of your other… friends have been hounding us of late. You have the power to stop them. Use it.”

Chenle was silent for a while. Kun wondered if he was shocked; when was the last time someone dared to speak like that to him? It had been years since he’d assumed the title of Grand Admiral, and such a position came with deference from everyone besides the Emperor himself. “Hmm,” he murmured again, but from the tone of his voice, he seemed satisfied enough. “Okay.”

Kun let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Okay.”

“And how do you know of this,” Chenle’s voice darkened, and he spat, “ _Ten Lee?”_

“Well, he and I, we—” Kun cleared his throat. He tried again. “We met on Canto Bight, once, and I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t either, so we just—yeah. We talked. And we became friends, I guess, and I thought he was doing the same things as I was doing. But it turned out that he was, well. You know.” Face burning, he tried not to sink back into his chair. It was so hard to explain things to Chenle. It always had been. 

_“Friends,”_ Chenle drew out the word like it was poison. “You’re telling me that he was willing to trust you as _friends?”_

The Twi’lek servant came in and cleared their plates. They laid out dessert as well: thin slices of the Moonglow fruit, arranged in a neat little circle for them to enjoy. Even this was decadent by Chenle’s standards: Kun had smuggled the fruit to Falleen once, and the profit had been outstanding—over a thousand credits for a single fruit. He wondered if Chenle was trying to prove something to him. “Yes,” he said, reaching for a slice. He wasn’t sure if there was a certain way to eat it, so he just took a small bite, sighing at the sensation. It was cold, crisp, and delightful; the sweetness lingered at the roof of his mouth.

Chenle took two slices and put it into his mouth at one go. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

Kun spluttered. The fruit suddenly felt like gravel in his throat. “I—”

It was enough of an answer for Chenle. His silence this time was _mean:_ it made Kun feel like a chastened kid. Like he’d done something wrong at the academy and was being scolded for it. It was the kind of feeling Kun used to inspire in Chenle back then, and Kun knew Chenle was purposefully drawing it out; the hollowed room spoke volumes. _You would sleep with a stranger but not me._

Chenle shifted. At the head of the table, he looked every part his role of Grand Admiral—a figure wreathed in imperial white, military badges dangling heavily on the lapel of his jacket. For the first time that night, Kun met his eyes. The overhead light had cast a shadow over him, swallowing all but the most prominent parts of his face: it made his cheekbones harsher, his eyebrows darker, the sharpness of his eyes more pronounced. Chenle looked at him steadily, and asked: “Was it nice?” 

Kun swallowed. Chenle’s gaze made it impossible for him to look away. “Was what nice?”

“Fucking him.”

“It was—” Kun started, and stopped. He didn’t want to grant Chenle the reaction he was looking for. “I don’t think you actually want to hear about this.”

Chenle leaned forwards. He was so close to Kun that Kun could feel his breath on his face when he spat, harshly, “You’re not my father. You never have been. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do. I’m asking you again: was it nice?”

This close, Kun could see everything on Chenle’s face. The scowl that was shaped on his lips. The sharp planes of his cheekbones. His eyes, glittering dangerously in the light. Kun wanted him so badly that he had to close his eyes. “Yes.”

Chenle leaned back, satisfied. Slowly, he ascended from his seat; then, like a prowling animal, he descended upon Kun, planting himself in his lap. Instinctively, Kun reached to steady him, but Chenle caught his hands before they could reach his waist. _“No.”_ He pinned Kun’s hands to the armrest. “Tell me about it.”

The words rushed breathlessly out of Kun. “As I said earlier. We met on Canto Bight. I was playing Sabacc, and he asked for a game. I agreed, and when we were placing bets, he said—if he won, then he wanted to spend a night with me.”

“As easy as that?” Chenle murmured, shifting in Kun’s lap. Kun willed his body not to react. “And then?”

“He won,” said Kun, wryly. That wasn’t all to the story: he had let Ten win. “And, well. He had a room. We went, and…” 

“And?” Chenle pressed. He had started to move, grinding small circles into Kun’s lap, and Kun couldn’t do anything but sit there and pant: “And I fucked him into the bed, as he—ah—asked. And it was good. He was experienced, more than me, and I let him do what he— _ah_ —wanted…” Chenle sped up his rhythm, and Kun’s senses clouded over. He wanted to do nothing more than to kiss Chenle, to taste the remnants of the Moonglow fruit in his mouth and chase the sweetness that he’d remembered in Chenle five years ago. But that was not what he had come here to do. “Wait,” he gasped, “Chenle. Stop.”

Chenle stopped. He looked at Kun. “I want this,” he said. “You do too, don’t you?”

“I don’t—” Kun tried to protest, but it was futile. Chenle was right. “I only came here to trade information with you.”

“And this is part of the trade.”

Kun’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Here in Kun’s lap, the severe cut of Chenle’s uniform only served to highlight his figure. Kun wanted nothing more than to take it off him. “Five years ago,” Chenle started. “You let me kiss you. Then you left the Empire. I couldn’t have killed you then—I wasn’t powerful enough. But now,” he said, his eyes dark, “I could kill you here and now if I wanted. Tell me why I shouldn’t do it.”

“Because you don’t want to,” said Kun, agonized. He wasn’t sure if it was true, but a part of him still wanted to believe the best in Chenle. “I know you. You don’t want to kill me.”

Chenle stilled. “You don’t know me anymore,” he hissed. He surveyed Kun silently, daring him to look away. Kun refused to budge. “You know, I did,” Chenle admitted. “When you first left. I wanted to kill you so badly for leaving me. I dreamed about it—choking you with my hands. The way you’d call my name while you were struggling to breathe. I thought the only way I could bear to hear your voice again was if you were dying with it in your mouth. But you’re right,” he relented, when Kun looked at him in horror, “I don’t want to kill you now. Yet I don’t think you were truthful about what you wanted from me earlier.”

“I want those things,” Kun said, but it felt hollow: he couldn’t stop thinking about what Chenle had just said. _I thought the only way I could bear to hear your voice again was if you were dying with it in your mouth._ Chenle then—the last time they had seen each other—was chasing a kind of fame that scared Kun. He’d always been destined for greatness, and nobody knew that better than Chenle himself; so, when the Emperor latched onto his mind, he’d opened it willingly. He let his greatness manifest in the dark. Kun thought that he would merely fade into the background of Chenle’s mind after that. “It wasn’t a lie.”

“No,” Chenle agreed. “It wasn’t a lie. But I know you also want me. And I’m _offering_. I’m worth more than anything else you asked for—why don’t you just take up the offer?”

Kun didn’t want to say: _because I won’t be able to see you again after this._ How could he live with only being able to taste Chenle’s skin once in his life? But he was also weak, and selfish, and Chenle’s mouth had haunted him for five years already—at least the memory of Chenle’s skin on him could be immortalized in his mind for his entire life. He felt himself relent. “And the other conditions?”

Chenle smiled, lifting himself off Kun’s lap. “I’ll grant them to you. A deal is a deal.” He reached out his hand. “So? Are you coming?” 

Kun took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, and took Chenle’s hand.

* * *

Later, Kun woke. Chenle was sprawled besides him, naked. Sleep made his features softer, kinder in a way that made Kun’s heart ache with the memory of who Chenle had been. Bright. Happy. Charming. He thought of Chenle at five, laughing when Kun made a particularly funny joke to him. The way he’d cling onto Kun’s arms when he was ten, begging for Kun to pick him up. On his thirteenth birthday, when Kun had flown them around Coruscant, Chenle had watched their sky-tipped towers thread themselves into the clouds and, when they were far above, fade into little twinkling blips of light. He’d said, awed: _I can rule Coruscant, from here._ Maybe Kun should have taken that as a warning sign; at sixteen, the Emperor had reached into Chenle’s mind and never left. And finally, at eighteen, when Chenle was quieter and angry and had kissed him like he wanted to prove something—Kun couldn’t do it anymore. He wasn’t made for the Empire the way Chenle was. So he left.

Sometimes Kun felt that he could’ve done more, back then. That maybe he should never have left. But they were long past that time now—there was no point in dwelling on the past. Kun softly brushed Chenle’s hair back, tracing a finger across the curve of his face. He looked so peaceful like that. Then he got up and left the room. 

The hallway was silent. Kun looked around for the bathroom, and found it at the end of the hall. He made sure to shut the door behind him when he entered. He let the tap trickle before splashing his face with water, then took a deep breath and turned on his communicator. The light flickered, whirring blue-white in front of him—and Ten’s face appeared, smiling. “How was it?”

“It's done,” Kun replied. “He’ll meet us there. Be prepared—he won’t go easily.”

Ten scowled. “Of course he won’t. We’ve been preparing for months, from the lowest level up. We’re ready.” He looked at Kun’s face, and his expression softened. “Kun—I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Kun said. His voice was hoarse. “I’m sorry too. He—” he cut himself off, not knowing what to say; nothing in the galaxy could have prepared him for this moment. Outside, Coruscant slept with a perpetual hum, restless. Inside, Kun straightened. There was no time for sentiment, only strength. The weight of millions of souls was on his shoulders. “He will die. I will make sure it happens.”


End file.
